


Emerging Patterns

by manicmanner



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manicmanner/pseuds/manicmanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy rolls his eyes. "I'm making a face at you because you're a huge nerd who fights crime in a Halloween costume."</p><p>"Apparently it strikes fear into the hearts of criminals."</p><p>Foggy snorts. "Apparently they're as blind as you are."</p><p>-</p><p>Matt needs a helping hand and Foggy Nelson is absolutely done with his friend's shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emerging Patterns

There seems to be a pattern forming. Foggy is still at the office even though it's one o’clock in the morning working on briefs. Why? Because now they are actually getting clients, which is amazing and awesome, but the workload is more intense than law school promised him it would be. It’s good work, Foggy thinks blearily as he rifles through the same case files for the hundredth time that night, but it’s hard. He sent Karen home around nine so he’s been here alone for hours.

Where’s his partner? Out beating the snot out of people, probably.

Foggy doesn’t ask too many questions about it. He doesn’t want to pry further into Matt’s life than the man would be comfortable with and honestly, Foggy really doesn’t want to know most of the time why his best friend walks into the office hiding a limp or some new bruises that just barely peek out from under the collar of his shirt. That strategy doesn’t stop him from worrying, but if there isn’t anything he can do (he know he can’t cross the line into vigilantism; he’d look terrible in spandex and he’s never had a stomach for the sight of blood), he’d rather have plausible deniability. 

Foggy asks about it when he feels he needs to, like when Matt “has a hunch” about a particularly tricky case or after a long day over drinks at Matt’s place where no one can overhear the conversation, but he leaves it alone. What Matt does is also good work; albeit work that Foggy’s had a hard time accepting as a part of Matt’s life (which, by extension, means Foggy’s life.) But that work usually means Foggy’s working for two people on the legal front.

Which is draining. Any hope Foggy had at rekindling a relationship with Marci went straight out the window when this whole pattern started forming. Actually, any hopes at a life outside of Matt, Karen, and the office died along with it too. He’s woken up to Karen’s concerned face one too many times lately after passing out at his desk and he only vaguely remembers what the inside of his apartment looks like.

But something else has developed too. After the whole Fisk fiasco Foggy had signed himself up for a couple of basic first-aid classes (after Matt had mumbled a lame excuse as to why the super-hot, actually-trained-nurse Claire couldn’t help out after all.) And some nights he has had to put those skills to use.

The chorus of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” is loud enough to make Foggy jump out of his seat. He bangs his knees on the top of the desk as he does so, which has him swearing loudly. That woke him up. He grabs his phone and taps at it to answer. “Yeah?” he answers, glaring down at the offending desk.

There’s silence at the other end, although if Foggy strains (and he does) he can hear Matt’s even breathing. “Is this a bad time?”

“No! No,” Foggy says, sitting back down in his chair desk. He pushes away from the desk which causes the chair to spin in a lazy arc under his weight. “Just working on those briefs. A lot of those court dates are coming up, so I’m just making sure we’ve got everything. I was thinking with the Kissinger case we could settle with this one technicality and—”

“What time is it?” Matt cuts in.

“Uh.” Foggy checks the time on his phone. Wow, that’s later than he thought. “It’s, uh,” Foggy rubs his eyes tiredly, “2:30. Ish.” He hears Matt sigh. He realizes that there’s a deliberateness to it that he hadn’t noticed earlier. “Hey, man, are you okay? Unless this is a booty call, which I’m pretty sure it’s not because you know I’m classier than that, you don’t call this late unless something’s up.”

Matt huffs out one of those non-laughs he tends to make. “Marci called you all the time.” He uses called as opposed to calls. Foggy rubs at his eyes again, this time in exasperation. Of course Matt’s creepy-ninja-powers picked up on that at some point. Foggy doesn’t stop Matt to ask. “But no, it’s not that. Just could use a hand with something.”

“There’s got to be a way to talk about this that doesn’t sound vaguely sexual,” Foggy comments. That earns him another chuckle. Foggy grins in response.

“Maybe, but this is more fun, right?”

“Whatever you say, buddy. Anything in particular I need to bring?”

Matt is quiet for a moment. “Just your magic hands, I think.”

He hangs up laughing after Foggy starts swearing at him.

-

Foggy forgets how dark Matt keeps his apartment when there aren't people to appease. Maybe it’s a blind thing, or maybe a vigilante thing. He supposes either way that it keeps his power bill down. He leaves the lights off as he makes his way over to the couch in the middle of the studio apartment, using the light of the obnoxious billboard to guide him.

Matt isn’t laid up on the couch at least. The man is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room and doesn’t move as Foggy approaches. There are washcloths stained with drying blood lying beside him where Matt attempted to clean a cut above his eyes. Even with the shit lighting Foggy can see the bruises already manifesting on Matt’s exposed upper-body in the form of angry red spots. 

There’s a lot in that scene that makes Foggy’s heart break just a little: the marks themselves, the way his friend is calmly sitting there despite the injuries. But it’s the fact that he’ll endure more of the same tomorrow that almost does him in. He can say a lot at this moment. But Matt says something for him. “You need to lay off on those snacks.”

Foggy blinks. “Snacks?”

Matt taps his nose. “The chips and the Cheetos and—“ he pauses to sniff, “the candy.”

“How--?”

“It gets on your clothes, the front of your shirt and the cuffs of your sleeves mostly.”

Of all the things Matt’s focusing on right now and it’s his friend’s bad eating habits? Foggy opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. He takes a deep breath and settles on, “That’s really creepy, you know that?”

Matt shrugs off the comment. “I just worry. You binge eat when you’re stressed.”

Foggy defensively pats his stomach. He has gained some weight, but it’s not something he cared about that much. And with all of the work to do around the firm he didn’t see the value of expending effort on a balanced meal. “I wonder why I would be stressed,” Foggy mumbles. 

He sees Matt flinch and instantly feels bad. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. But also, who’s supposed to be giving medical advice to whom right now? The guy who eats junk food every so often or the guy who’s on the ground?” When Matt doesn’t say anything in response, Foggy adds, “Thought so.”

Matt stays completely still as Foggy pokes and prods him. Foggy goes on about his day at the office as he notes to himself that Matt just has some bruised ribs. (Just bruised ribs. God, he barely remembers when his biggest concern about Matt was that he'd get hit by a car crossing the street.)

Foggy leans back on his heels and places his hands on his knees. "In my certifiable opinion all you'll need is some ice and rest. No need to wrap your ribs."

Matt tilts his head. "Wouldn't that help?"

"Not according to my handy dandy first aid class. But you need to actually rest, Matty. You need a day or two to let those ribs heal up. Of course, you could always call your nurse friend if you want to argue."

"I think your advice is sound enough," Matt says. "No need for a second opinion. Doctors are expensive." He tries to get up from his position but gasps in pain.

Foggy gets up and helps pull Matt off the floor. He pointedly ignores the pained sounds Matt's making under his breath. They make their way to the couch where Foggy deposits Matt and Foggy continues on to the kitchen for some ice. He puts it in a sealed bag and folds that into the clean rag that was hanging from one of the drawer handles. When he returns Matt is back to his square breathing routine.

"We ought to make you an ice vest," Foggy says. Matt hums in acknowledgment but otherwise doesn't respond. Foggy makes a show about flopping onto the couch besides Matt, jostling him slightly. "I mean, it would look dumb, but no more than your super suit already does. Because really, I've been thinking about it, and those horns are awful. I think you should get a refund."

Matt turns to look in his direction. "I like the horns." The man hisses as Foggy presses the pack of ice into the skin.

Foggy rolls his eyes. "I'm making a face at you because you're a huge nerd who fights crime in a Halloween costume."

"Apparently it strikes fear into the hearts of criminals."

Foggy snorts. "Apparently they're as blind as you are."

Matt's laugh drowns out the city's noise for a moment. Foggy hopes that Matt doesn't hear his heart skip a beat.

If he does, he doesn't comment. He just grins over at Foggy (which isn't as cute as it could be given the nasty cut above his brow and the puffy red skin around his jawline) and says, "I'm glad you know."

Foggy could say a lot of things in this moment. Maybe something about sometimes wishing he didn’t know. Maybe about how Foggy now constantly checks the news to see if Matt’s been seriously injured (or dead. Foggy doesn’t examine that option too closely.) But he goes with, "Yeah. Yeah, me too, buddy."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
